


needed

by sessho



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Metaphors, POV Second Person, Period-Typical Homophobia, canon compliant for CA:TWS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 00:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18767932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sessho/pseuds/sessho
Summary: This, this was normal and you were normal and this was the way it always should have been.Is what you tell, what you told yourself but it rings false to your ears (and you cover them, you shut the sounds out but no, it doesn't work, your left arm defiant and not you except for all the ways it is).





	needed

**Author's Note:**

> I finally saw Endgame today and I have a lot of thoughts, the main one being that things were much better when CA:TWS was just released and the only MCU movie that mattered. Apparently the outlet for all those thoughts is going back to this super short piece I wrote first thing on an Easter morning, all the way back in 2014 and have never posted anywhere outside of my twitter.  
> It's imperfect in many ways but I suppose I still do like the emotions in this so here it is.

And maybe fucked up is just right for you since it never could be normal. Not in the past, when the two of you were still young and more than a bit hopeful, more than a bit stupid. Oh no, it wasn't normal then. 

 

Normal doesn't get you in jail, it doesn't get strangers to sneer at you, at the mere thought of you and people like you. Strangers is people, you're something beneath that. 

 

Not that back then you'd admit it, to others, certainly not yourself. You wouldn't and it's not likely you didn't enjoy being with girls, no. 

Girls were good and they were brilliant and bright and full of something that you never could quite touch, never could reach. It eluded you and you chased after it, tirelessly, and you chased them and their unapologetic silver tinted laughter. 

 

This, this was normal and you were normal and this was the way it always should have been. 

 

Is what you tell, what you told yourself but it rings false to your ears (and you cover them, you shut the sounds out but no, it doesn't work, your left arm defiant and not you except for all the ways it is). 

 

So maybe you've always been a fuck-up, forever needing to prove something to the world. It is something you accused _him_ of as if shifting the blame would actually negate it, except it never did and sometimes you're not sure if you ever really expected it too. 

 

And oh, he did, it's not like it wasn't true, it's not like you were lying to yourself.

And you know your words were just as directed at him like they were at you and maybe that's the thing that got to you, that got to you the most. 

That what you felt the need to prove yourself to, wasn't the world, it was him, always him and the world he saw, the better world he was seeking. 

 

The world that never came. 

Deep inside you knew it never would, that things just don't work this way but still, sometimes you slipped and you let yourself wish. 

You let yourself listen to his words (and his mouth painted even more beautiful images than his hands did) and oh, you wanted to believe. 

And then, it seemed like he finally possessed the power to realise all those dreams. 

And you cheered him on and you supported him, all that with a jagged blade turning oh so slowly in your side, with your heart festering minutely but surely. 

 

You kept giving yourself away but the thirst was never sated. 

You became a tool, you made yourself a tool for him, which he never wanted but which he needed. You needed to be needed and that was about the only way it could still apply. 

(It didn't.)

 

And then you fell but that wasn't when you broke. Your bones, maybe, some beyond saving and it hurt, it hurt like nothing ever did before. 

It was still merciful.

 

It wasn't until later when you finally broke, shattered in such fine pieces that they could never be whole again. But no one bothered in the first place. 

The shell of you was what they ever needed and you, you were broken beyond repair. You were. Not. 

 

A tool. You turned into a tool, a perfect one this time. A necessity. 

You were needed. Important. They fed you that each time. 

You think it was each time but you don't remember, maybe sometimes they didn't bother after all. You wouldn't be surprised. You wouldn't bother. 

 

And then, you weren't even that. Wiped clean of all excuses. Wiped clean. 

 

Now you're here and you're full, you're spilling over. 

You're empty and your body aches with pain your mind doesn't, can't recall. 

You're in pieces and you never stopped falling. 

 

And oh, he tries. He gets you the best of the best and at your best you don't comment that if they didn't manage to help him, then they're not helping you either. 

His fingertips are bleeding but they never bleed out, they heal too quick so he goes and gets them cut again against the shards. 

His hands are full of blood and it doesn't suit him but it's what he is. 

 

He's fucked up, a hero and a murderer, and he's too good. He's too good for you, the way it's always been and that's the gap you will never be able to bridge, even if you tried. 

 

You did, once. You tried over and over again and if it didn't work then, it's not going to now. 

You don't. 

 

He does, unrelenting and it pains you to see it, it pains you to see him fail. He wasn't supposed to fail, him, forever the better man, forever such a good man, even with his hands dripping red. 

He fails.


End file.
